benzy: Writing

Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts

26.6.14

31.5.14

On Youth

"Fucking youth, he said. Goddamn fucking youth."

— Roberto Bolaño | 2666, The Part About Archimboldi

Literature, Masterpieces & Minor Work.

"I was a writer, I was a writer, but my indolent, voracious brain gnawed at my own entrails. Vulture of my Prometheus self or Prometheus of my vulture self, one day I understood that I might go so far as to publish excellent articles in magazines and newspapers, and even books that weren’t unworthy of the paper on which they were printed. But I also understood that I would never manage to create anything like a masterpiece. You may say that literature doesn’t consist solely of masterpieces, but rather is populated by so-called minor works. I believed that, too. Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wild-flowers. I was wrong. There’s actually no such thing as a minor work."

— Roberto Bolaño | 2666, The Part About Archimboldi

Good Evening, Sputnik Sweetheart

And so I held up Sputnik Sweetheart up against the sunset just before the thunderstorm.

I guess this is what nostalgia looks like.

30.5.14

I Will. I Must.

One day I shall write a great book so high and wild
I will never have to write another word ever again.
It will be elegant in prose and sheer in magnitude.
It will start with nothing and end with nothing.

28.5.14

Everything Ends (Painfully)

In time my clothes will turn to rags and I will be naked.
One day I will drown and I will be free.

25.5.14

A (Faux) Letter To An Old Friend

"Oh, you are really such a pretty one.

I see you've gone and changed your name again."

— Leonard Cohen

My nights have been restless. It is not your fault. It is half the weather and half my memory. I don't know if my last letter ever reached you. I included a couple of postcards as well. On the back of one of them I wrote "have a beautiful summer." That was two months ago. Between then and now I've been to a few places, read a few books and wrote a few articles and met a few people, just to fill up my time. Oftentimes I've sat down and pondered if I should write you another letter and each time I've forced myself not to because who knows these are delicate times. But the words keep bubbling inside and here I am writing you this pseudo-letter which you’ll probably never read. This is not an exercise in catharsis. This is love. I'll suspend my disbelief, fool myself and call it that. The days are long but this is not such a bad ending.

Happy birthday, C. I hope you didn't miss the meteor shower.

Sincerely,
B.

16.5.14

With A Frightful Heart

I'm

trembling

because

I'm

in

love

with

you.

6.5.14

OVLE

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vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvv

vvv

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

5.5.14

Synaptic Dislocation

I'm taking a break from society. I'm taking a break from society.

16.4.14

Imagined Thoughts V

I'm starting to believe that life, after all,
is just a collection of inconvenient moments.

15.4.14

Imagined Thoughts IV

A poet's lusts knows no bounds.
My lust (for poetry) knows no bounds.

12.4.14

Imagined Thoughts III

Freedom is a dictator.

10.4.14

Imagined Thoughts II

It was a hot black night.

8.4.14

Imagined Thoughts I

Gambling away my sainthood for her untouchable beauty.

2.4.14

A Song For April

Where are the songs of April?
What are the songs of April?
Somewhere we are born
somewhere we die.
The white midday heat
the rough edges of the iron railings
leave nothing but bruises,
reminding you of your own mortality.
A blot in my eye.
Where is the rain?

31.1.14

While In Jaipur : The Pink City (Part VI - Jaigarh Fort)

The Pink Plaza.

Back view of the tower.

In full bloom.

The nine wives of the Raj.

Door leading to the pink balcony - the biggest I've ever seen, floating 400 ft up on the hills.

The pink balcony.

View from the pink balcony (mid-left)

View from the pink balcony (mid).

Telescopic view of the lake between the mountains.

The hanging garden, built for the wives and princesses.

Archways leading to the sky.

Add caption

The artillery section.

Crematorium (side view).

Crematorium (front view).

The Jaivana cannon - manufactured in 1720 and the biggest during its time stands as an exhibit today in one of the desolate towers of the gigantic fort. It has a firing range of 35 km (22 miles).

Rajasthan. Sand. Camel.

31.12.13

We Sit Here Stranded

It is the end all over again. I just completed reading my 50th book of the year and here I am clueless as I was at the beginning of the year. It's the same old story, all over again.

Every year only a few remarkable days stand out. This February I had the opportunity of meeting a woman from Germany. Strange as it may sound, I seem to have forgotten her name. I'm good with faces but I'm very bad with names. She is a visual artist and I learnt more about Germany and the Fall of the Berlin Wall in those two isolated hours I spent with her than history books ever taught me. She herself had taken part in the revolution and was there when the Wall fell. She was 16 then.

In April, I was there at the International Jazz Concert in Nehru Park. A night I'll remember in the days to come. I was there at the High School Reunion this year. I was there at the War cemetery. I was there at Ghalib's resting place in May. I was there at Alexandra Georgiana Skinner's grave and marveled at its beauty. I was there at Begum Samru's palace. I was on the road. I was in the streets. I stayed up one October night and composed 79 Haikus. I woke up at 5 and ran for two miles each morning throughout December just to catch the sun rise over at the lake. Such days to remember!